


Solitary

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Multi, amnesia trope, musketeers day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers up to 2.2.  <i>Maybe one day his captors will believe what he says and release him, but until that time comes he’ll record his imprisonment in stone.  He doesn’t know the answers to their endless questions.  He doesn’t know any king or queen.  He’s not privy to plans or troop movements...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary

Another day breaks and he gouges out a mark on the wall next to him. There are too many of these lines now. He's been making them since he first regained consciousness in this cell, although he has no idea why he bothers. Maybe one day his captors will believe what he says and release him, but until that time comes he’ll record his imprisonment in stone. He doesn’t know the answers to their endless questions. He doesn’t know any king or queen. He’s not privy to plans or troop movements, and he has no knowledge of the whereabouts of General Abarca.

They have not tortured him physically and, other than the harsh beating he received when he was first captured, he’s in a good state of health, albeit a trifle undernourished. He assumes he must be of value to them unharmed, but if he persists in not answering their questions then he’s in no doubt that the inquisitors will use their instruments soon enough.

Startled by the sound of a commotion, he looks towards the barred window. There’s the clamour of a sword fight from the courtyard below, with loud shouts accompanying the clash of steel on steel. The discharge of firearms is close by, the pressure of it hurting his ears, and he wonders if this will signify someone's rescue. But by whom and for what purpose?

As the lock is blown from the cell door, he shoves himself backwards into the corner and looks up at a slim young man, olive skinned and of Spanish heritage by the look of things. This will not help matters. He does not speak the language. French is his mother tongue and Latin is familiar, but he has nothing more than a smattering of English and Spanish.

"Athos!"

The name is a mystery, but the boy's accent is Gascon. At least he’s of similar descent to him.

"Athos, get up. We must go now. The others are fighting a losing battle down there." He hands over a sword. "Are you fit?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Then come on."

The young man's words are urgent. This rescue is for him, but by whom and for what reason, he has no idea. The sword fits comfortably in his hand and he follows the boy and joins in automatically with the mêlée, his atrophied muscles coming back to life as he swings his blade at the Spanish guards. 

The looming figure of a dark skinned man comes close, grabbing him by the arm and leading him over to an arched wooden door. The big man kicks it open and they make a dash for it down some stone steps, the others just paces behind them, stopping to fire their pistols as they go. It’s exciting, but at the same time terrifying. A leap into the unknown.

The horses are tethered nearby, and they ride like the wind until they are clear of the fort, then dismount once they find a safe place to stop.

"Athos," says the third member of the rescue party, a man with a neatly sculpted beard and long dark hair. "It's good to have you back with us."

"I'll say it is," says the dark skinned man. "Treville will do his best to have Rochefort hanged for this, unless he manages to weasel his way out of it."

"Which undoubtedly he will."

These names are all a mystery to him. Even his own. He prays for an inkling of recognition, but still nothing comes to him.

"Athos?" says the youngest of the group, the one who’d rescued him from his cell.

"I don’t know who you are," he confesses, looking around at them in bewilderment. "I don’t know who I am."

The three men stare at each other in consternation, then the big man smiles at him and clamps both hands down on his shoulders. "You are Athos of the King's Musketeers. You are our sworn brother and friend. The whelp here is d'Artagnan, the dandy next to him Aramis, and I am Porthos." He holds that gaze and Athos--for he must accept it as his name sometime--feels the weight of a bond.

The man called Aramis steps in closer to examine him, checking his eyes and feeling his head for evidence of injury. "What do you remember, my friend?"

"Nothing before waking up in the cell. I know I was there at least sixty days. I’ve been marking the passage of time."

"It's more than seventy since you were taken," said Porthos gruffly. "They must have beaten you badly."

He’s full of fury and Athos is nervous of his rage. "I don’t know anything," he says. "I wish I did."

"We’ll ride as far as we can tonight," said Aramis. "It will be a long journey back to Paris. We have some warmer clothes for you here."

Athos looks down at his shredded rags and filthy state, and is embarrassed to keep company with such soldiers.

"You’ve been imprisoned," says Porthos in a low voice. "You can't expect to come out of it dressed like a courtier. Here, let me help you."

Athos allows himself to be disrobed and is then clothed in clean garments and a thick woollen cloak. He knows Aramis is examining him carefully for signs of injury, but is certain there are none.

After riding until their horses are exhausted, they make camp near the border, and as they eat a simple meal of bread and cheese, Athos can feel d'Artagnan's worried eyes on him at all times.

"Is all well with the boy?" he asks Porthos as they settle for the night. "He seems overwhelmed."

"He looks up to you," explains Porthos. "You trained him and helped him become a member of the regiment. He was devastated when you were taken by those bastards." The man pauses for a moment and looks at him with sad eyes. "We all were."

"I wish my memories would come back to me," says Athos. He feels naked without them.

"They will," said Porthos and the touch of that huge hand on his forearm is a comfort.

\---

At first light, after a quick meal of hardtack and water, they ride through the hills and are soon in France. His nationality is the one certainty Athos knows about himself, and it feels good to be back in his home country. The other thing that reassures him is the heavy weight of his weaponry. He has been equipped with both gun and sword belt. He has a pistol at his hip and a rapier against his side and, as the accoutrements rattle, he is at peace.

The talking is less simple. He sits by the fire at night, listening to light-hearted conversation between Porthos and Aramis, and wonders whether he was once as garrulous with them.

Picking morsels of trout off the backbone, he smirks at d'Artagnan. "I am as out of water here as these fish," he says. "Although not quite as gutted."

"You were never much of a talker," says the boy, smiling back at him. "Do you have any knowledge of your past?"

"None at all," says Athos. "Though Aramis reassures me it will return."

D'Artagnan looks at him with concern in his eyes. "We will be there for you when it does." 

Athos throws the pile of fish bones into the river and leans back on both elbows to gaze into the fire. "I am already aware of how much I value and trust you all. That part is easy to know."

"And we you," says Aramis, butting into the conversation and passing Athos a wineskin. "I will go further to say that we love you."

\---

The next day, during their travels, they are set upon by robbers. It’s a hard fight but a good one, and Athos gets to prove his mettle when the musket ball jams inside the muzzle of Aramis' arquebus and the man is left vulnerable. The swingeing blow from Athos’ rapier cuts through one attacker, and a shot from his pistol despatches another who is approaching from the trees.

Afterwards, Athos is pumped with adrenaline, so much so that he’s surprised when Porthos takes hold of him, removing his cloak and shirt so that Aramis can tend to a graze across his right shoulder.

"Nothing coming back to you?" says Porthos as he keeps him steady.

"No, but I enjoyed it very much indeed," says Athos, looking around him in hope that there are more thieves lurking in the undergrowth.

"There's our Athos," says Aramis and Porthos rumbles with laughter.

D'Artagnan, who's busy covering the corpses as best he can, looks up from his onerous task and grins.

\---

Having grown accustomed to being alone with his brothers, Athos is less keen at the idea of a return to the garrison. He is taken first to his rooms, where Aramis charms the landlady into preparing a bath.

A little later on, Porthos eyes him up and down. "That’s an improvement. The only thing missing is your hat," he says as Athos stands amongst them, shaven, shorn, washed and dressed.

"And myself," says Athos gloomily.

"The hat issue we can resolve, but the rest is up to you," says Aramis, patting him on the back. "Come along, my dear friend. It's time for you to return to the bosom of your regiment. The men have all been pining for you."

"Although not as much as we have," says Porthos.

"I believe Captain Treville has longed for him equally as much," says Aramis.

"But only because he has to put up with our devil-may-care choice of tactics," laughs Porthos.

"Indeed. There are times he must thank the Lord for delivering d'Artagnan to him." Aramis smiles at the boy.

"Do not even think of comparing me to Athos," says d'Artagnan.

"Cover your hero worship, d’Artagnan," says Aramis. "It's trailing behind you and embarrassing our friend."

D'Artagnan blushes, Porthos bellows with laughter and for a moment Athos can picture them all at a tavern with Porthos laughing in this exact fashion. "You cheat at cards," he says with a raised eyebrow.

"It's a malicious rumour," says Porthos and then he rounds on Athos, delight written on his face. "You could only know this because you remember it."

"It's just a glimmer," says Athos, and being buried inside Porthos’ arms is another familiarity.

"A glimmer of a memory," says Aramis. "And more will come."

\---

The garrison building is unfamiliar to him. Meeting Treville holds a hint of something distant, but it is no more than the first recollection of childhood, which, for Athos, is the sensation of grasping a handful of a woman’s skirts as she leaves him. Treville is the same: a faint rustle of memory.

"I will see to it that Rochefort pays for this," says the captain when he learns about the circumstances of Athos' capture. "The man is a menace."

"But one who is on excellent terms with the king and queen," says Aramis diplomatically.

"It could have been worse," says Athos. "If I hadn't been suffering from amnesia then I may well have revealed General Abarca’s whereabouts."

The others laugh. "It's clear you do not know yourself as well as we do," says Treville. "Come along, gentlemen. We have an audience with the king. Let's see how this plays out."

The ride to the palace comes as a short lived relief. Athos wishes he could spend his entire time on horseback, or in battle. The nuances of a social life--more to the point, a forgotten social life--are tricky to navigate. He's growing tired of people telling him how he used to behave. He feels slightly unhinged, and is becoming more so as the days progress. He’s certain of his friends, yet unsure of himself, and it makes him want to step away from the world. 

"A word of warning," says Porthos in a low voice as he rides beside Athos. "There is a woman at court who is very familiar to you. You may react strongly to seeing her."

"Who is she?" asks Athos.

"Milady de Winter: the king's current favourite and also your wife."

Porthos is watching him carefully, but all Athos feels is an overwhelming sense of wrongness. "My wife?"

"Estranged," murmurs Porthos. "Difficult circumstances. We'll tell you all about it later, if seeing her doesn't bring it back to you."

Athos mulls this over as they enter the courtyard of the palace. He is fascinated to meet the royal couple, but they turn out to be a disappointment, with King Louis nothing more than a foppish idiot and his wife, the Queen Anne, a china doll beside him. They are of no interest to Athos, and instead he focuses his attention on Rochefort, smirking as the man attempts to stare him down. There is an obvious play between them, and Athos hopes the details will come back to him. It seems far more intriguing than anything else happening at court.

When Porthos leans in and says: 'Milady," Athos follows his gaze to a beautiful woman who's surveying him with cold green eyes. He feels nothing at all. A moment of sadness follows on from this, but only because he’d hoped that meeting someone he was so intimately involved with in the past would spark more than emptiness.

"I do not belong here," he says in an undertone to his friends. "I am made for the battlefield, not this nonsense."

Porthos and Aramis exchange glances and he wonders why his comment should warrant such a look.

\---

That evening, Porthos and Aramis insist on taking him to a tavern, and he goes along willingly in hope that the wine will blot out this unending aura of confusion.

"You belong in court more than most," says Aramis as they sit at a corner table, drinking the contents of a bottle of brandy. "You are the Comte de la Fère. Your wife is a murderess who escaped the noose by seducing her way free of it."

The wine seeps through Athos, infusing his brain with something soft and sweet and safe.

“She has been trying to ruin you since her return to Paris,” Aramis continues. “The king has no knowledge of her relationship to you. She is using him to gain power.”

“And I loved this woman?” asks Athos.

“You loved her once,” says Porthos. “Well and true, before you found out her dishonest nature.”

There is a flash of memory. A warmth. A love that comes from being in someone's arms, and Athos looks at Aramis in shock. "I remember," he says in astonishment. “I remember your lips on mine.” He turns to Porthos. "And you holding me in bed. Am I right? Tell me I am right."

"You are right," says Porthos, bursting with happiness as he looks to Aramis. "Your rooms are the closest."

It’s a stampede to get to bed and, in a split second, becomes everything Athos that has been missing since he was returned to them. In trying to help him recover his past, they have allowed him to reject it and as they strip him of his clothes and nestle him between them, he knows who he is and where he belongs.

"I am a soldier," he says and he kisses first Aramis and then Porthos on the mouth. "And I am your lover." The kiss becomes a messy three way exchange as they touch intimately. "And I love you both."


End file.
